Synopses & Reviews
It isnt easy being the rather overlooked and unhappy youngest sibling to sisters named for the other six days of the week. Sundays only comfort is writing stories, although what she writes has a terrible tendency to come true.
When Sunday meets an enchanted frog who asks about her stories, the two become friends. Soon that friendship deepens into something magical. One night Sunday kisses her frog goodbye and leaves, not realizing that her love has transformed him back into Rumbold, the crown prince of Arilland—and a man Sundays family despises.
The prince returns to his castle, intent on making Sunday fall in love with him as the man he is, not the frog he was. But Sunday is not so easy to woo. How can she feel such a strange, strong attraction for this prince she barely knows? And what twisted secrets lie hidden in his past—and hers?
The Newbery Medal-winning author of "The Hero and the Crown" retells the classic fairy tale in this young adult edition, now available in a rack-sized paperback.
A strange imprisonment
Beauty has never liked her nickname. She is thin and awkward; it is her two sisters who are the beautiful ones. But what she lacks in looks, she can perhaps make up for in courage.
When her father comes home with the tale of an enchanted castle in the forest and the terrible promise he had to make to the Beast who lives there, Beauty knows she must go to the castle, a prisoner of her own free will. Her father protests that he will not let her go, but she answers, "Cannot a Beast be tamed?"
Robin McKinley's beloved telling illuminates the unusual love story of a most unlikely couple: Beauty and the Beast.
A charming tumble of all the fairy tales you ever knew blended into one delicious novel, spiced with humor and sprinkled with true love, by the New York Times bestselling co-author of The Dark-Hunter Companion.
About the Author
Robin McKinley won the 1985 Newbery Medal for her book The Hero and the Crown
, and a 1983 Newbery Honor for The Blue Sword,
both set in mythical Damar.She is also the author of Beauty,
a retelling of Beauty and the Beast.She lives in England.
In Her Own Words...
"I was an only child and my father was in the Navy. We moved every year or twoCalifornia, Japan, upstate New York, New England. I early found the world of books much more satisfactory than the unstable so-called real world. I cant remember the first time I read Frances Hodgson Burnetts but this particular story, about a little girl all alone in a strange land who told stories so wonderful that she believed them herself, fasci-nated me. I never quite lived up to Sara Crewes standard, but I tried awfully hard.
"Writing has always been the other side of reading for me; it never occurred to me not to make up stories. Once I got old enough to realize that authorship existed as a thing one might aspire to, I knew it was for me. I even majored in English literature in college, a good indication of my fine bold disdain for anything so trivial as earning a living; I was going to be a writer, like Dickens and Hardy and George Eliot. And Kipling and H. Rider Haggard and J.R.R. Tolkien. I was, however, going to tell breathtaking stories about girls who had adventures. I was tired of the boys always getting the best parts in the best books. What with reading and making up my own stories, I spent most of my life in my head; about the only irresistible attraction reality had for me was in the shape of horses and riding. And I liked traveling. Perhaps because of my childhood, staying in one place for very long just seemed to me like a waste of opportunity.
"Its funny, though, the things life does to you. Inadvertently I discovered myself settling down, looking for excuses not to climb on another airplane. I bought a house because I fell in love with it, and it was somewhere to leave the thousands of books I picked up everywhere I went. Later, I decided that I wanted something around that didnt necessarily sit politely on a shelf till I took it down, so I bought a dog, a whippet I named Rowan. Insidiously I began liking it that tomorrow was going to be much like yesterday: walking the dog, sitting at the typewriter. I declared myself to have found home in my tiny house in a small village two-thirds of the way up the coast of Maine. I also, a little ruefully, concluded that my individual mix of the writers traditional absent-mindedness, a rather uncompromising feminism, and a naturally intransigent personality made marriage or any sort of permanent romantic attachment impractical. I didnt actually think I was missing much; I liked being single.
"This no doubt explainssomehowwhy I am now living in a small village in a very large house in Hampshire, England, with my husband, the English writer Peter Dickinson, three whippets, and a horse, and what seems to me, the only child and ex-solitary adult, about half a million Dickinson grandchildren rioting underfoot, down the corridors, and across the garden. When Peter and I decided to get married, it was obvious to me I was the one who had to emigrate; I was the military brat with lifelong experience of pulling up and moving on. So I dug up my tender new under-standing of home, packed it very carefully, and broughtit over here with me, with the eighty cartons of books and one bewildered whippet. It has taken root vigorously here, but the message to headquarters is very emphatic: Dont you ever do this to us again. Im not likely to: Ive planted over four hundred rosebushes in what were once Peters classic English garden bordersand look after them devotedly. I have the scars to prove it. I think Ive discovered reality after all. Im astonished at how interesting it is. Its giving me more things to write stories about."